What Makes You Special?
by Jersey Wolf
Summary: Movieverse, Seneca and Snow have known each other a while, and Seneca would like to think that the President likes him well enough, perhaps even thinks he's special. How horrible it is to find that you're not as special as you thought you were.


**Author's Note:** Holy monkeys! Something NOT P2 related! Shocking, I know, but well...I went to see The Hunger Games with my roomie, and did some thinking, and this came to me. Just something quick that I wanted to get out of my head. I hope the masses enjoy it. Also, may or may not be trigger-y. Don't blame me. Blame the lack of sleep.

Seneca's mind bounced around from thought to thought as he walked down the hallway, behind him two peacekeepers. He thought it was a bit strange. Not so much the peacekeepers, he was used to them being around, but more to the fact of how close they were standing. Every time he took a step the back of his jacket would brush against one of them. It was unnerving. Unsettling. He was just going to see the President. He did it all the time. Hell, this time President Snow had actually asked for him.

Rare indeed given that most of his appointments were spur of the moment. Whenever he had a thought. Had to ask Snow. Had to make sure Snow approved.

Well, most of the time.

Maybe Snow wanted to congratulate him on a job well done. In keeping rebellious suicide off the air and away from the eyes of people looking for excuses to rise up. Rise up and disrupt. Yes that had to be it. True, Snow would probably ream him out for it initially, but that was just the way the man showed affection. Sort of. Well, that's what Seneca had grown accustomed to. Thinly veiled threats in the form of scathing commentary. Some would have disliked it, but Seneca swore that it grew on you. Besides, why mess with the old man anyway? He was old. Set in his ways. There was nothing that was going to change all that. Most of all he was old.

A rough shove jolted Seneca back to the present, giving his thoughts a quick punt into nothingness. How very rude. He was going to say something, but by the time he turned around doors had been shut behind him. How curious. He'd never been in this room before. Surely they must have made a mistake. There was no one in this room. Just him and a table and a bowl and some other stupid stuff he couldn't care about.

Seneca reached out to open the door and air his grievances, but to his surprise the door did not budge. Not even a little jiggle.

Locked? Why would it be locked? No one locked Seneca Crane up. No one. Feeling thoroughly scandalized, the man turned around, trying to figure it out. He took a step toward the window; perhaps a nice view would allow him to make sense of this offense. However, his anger did not last long as his eyes rested upon the bowl and its contents.

Nightlock.

The man's heart skipped a beat, but the nerves were soon replaced with a strange confidence. "Oh, ha…very funny," Seneca half laughed still staring warily at the berries in the bowl. "You almost got me there for a second." Silence. "Sir, really, this is funny and all, but you said you wanted to speak with me." Again there was silence, and the man felt his heart start to pound, an awful thudding sound in his ears. "Sir…?"

"Seneca."

Seneca just about jumped out of his skin as the voice that came from nowhere and everywhere addressed him.

"Sir? You almost gave me a heart attack. What's going on? Where are you?"

"Far away from you," Snow's voice said disdainfully through speakers Seneca couldn't find. He'd venture a guess there were cameras too, but like the speakers he could not see them. "And you know exactly why you're here." Seneca arched his brow and shrugged. "Don't make that face. You're not stupid. Didn't you see the present I left you?"

"The berries? Well, yes, I saw them, but I just thought it was a joke."

"And a joke it is."

"I don't think it's very funny. Come now, let me out, and let's talk about this," Seneca pleaded an uneasy, reedy, quality coming into his voice. "This is ridiculous."

"No, you are ridiculous. Now, enough chatter I haven't the time for you to waste."

"What does that mean?" Seneca asked feeling indignant. This really wasn't the way he'd been envisioning the rest of his day. As a matter of fact this was the way he'd envisioned the rest of his life the more he thought about it. Trapped like a rat in a cage. Either eat the rat poison and die a rat or sit stubbornly and starve to death, still a rat and still dead. Such pleasant options set before him. Death, death, and lest you forget…more death. "I'm just supposed to poison myself? Kill myself?"

"That's the plan," Snow replied, and damn, Seneca could just see the wide, tightlipped grin on the old man's face. He wrinkled his nose and clenched his fist. This was just not fair! He was Seneca Crane! The Head Gamemaker! This was not how he was supposed to be treated.

"What for? I have done nothing."

"You have done too much," Snow scoffed. "I expected twenty-three bodies this Hunger Games, Seneca. You did not deliver."

"What? Is that was this is all about? I really don't think-"

"Seneca, you are trying my patience. I came to watch and be gone. My time is valuable."

"I refuse," Seneca replied, furrowing his brow as he thought. "I'm not some sort of spectacle," Seneca huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, doing a horrible job at containing his nerves. Despite his attitude he could still feel his heartbeat raging, his stomach all up in knots.

"And why not?"

"Huh?" The man was genuinely taken aback by the question. Why? Why? Well, he knew exactly why! It's was because-

"Well?" came Snow's voice again.

"I'm a person. I'm not to be made a fool of. Why should I have to do something so stupid? I shouldn't have to do this."

"What makes you so special?"

"What?"

"What makes you special, Seneca?"

"I…"

"The Capitol must have its tributes."

Seneca felt himself retreat slightly, his arms no longer crossed but behind his back, his eyes once more on the bowl. It was so strange the way Snow had just spoken. It was like he had back when Seneca was just getting to know him. Weirdly fatherly. To hear it again seemed so perverse. So unnatural.

"But I thought…" Seneca began, but his voice quickly died in his throat as he turned his head from side to side, looking for where the voice was coming from. From what vantage point he was being watched.

"What did you think?" the older man inquired, his voice dropping any and all care and giving way to nothingness. To distance.

"I-I thought…" Seneca forced out, unsure of what to make of the long forgotten feeling of inadequacy. "I thought you liked me. You said-"

"Don't snivel like that. It's unbecoming."

"You used to tell me that a lot…" Seneca almost whined, but he caught himself resulting in a pained exhale. "Sniveling is not becoming, Seneca. Stand up straighter, Seneca. Well done, Seneca." There was no response, and the man felt his breaths become faster and shallower. "Sir, please…say something. Don't leave me alone in here. Sir…dammit, this isn't funny. Please."

Around the room he started to pace. Around and around. Occasionally he'd pound on the door, but not even that garnered attention. Oh, there was nothing like being ignored. "Snow! Say something! Let me out. Please, let me go. I didn't mean to upset you. I won't mess up again. I promise." The more he spoke the more agitated he became. Listening to his voice bouncing off the walls. He knew he must have sounded pathetic, but being reasonable hadn't helped. Maybe he could try for sympathy.

"I know you can hear me. You're not listening, but you can hear me," he began, taking a break from pacing and rubbing his head, his usually neat hair no longer perfectly in place. "I remember you doing stuff like this to me. You always loved testing me. Is this a test? If it is I give up. You got me."

More silence. More painful, unfulfilling silence. Seneca leaned up against the wall with the window, the sun shining in. How horribly inappropriate. Slowly he slid down and pulled his legs up close to him, bowing his head to his knees, his palms flat on the floor. He hadn't sat like that since he was a child.

"Seneca." The man did not move. "Seneca," Snow's voice came again. Firmer. Seneca picked up his head, but only enough to stare at the doors, trying to will them open. To bring an end to this.

"Yes, sir?"

"You've given up already?" Seneca remained silent, his pride aching far too much for him to think of a clever retort. "What I a shame. I had expected better of you." Seneca cringed at the words knowing that Snow meant more than just this little fiasco. He was disappointed. Disappointed in him. In his choices. "It's such a shame, really," the older man continued, his matter of fact tone grating heavily on what was left of Seneca's frayed nerves. "I really had thought you were better than this."

"I am," Seneca replied weakly.

"No," Snow sighed. "You're not special."

And with that the silence returned, but with it came an idea. A strange, little, idea in Seneca's head. Snow wanted a spectacle, a show. He wanted his puppet to perform one last time for him. The thought of it suddenly brought up bile into Seneca's throat, and he almost lost it, but he swallowed it back down. He stood up slowly, dusting himself off and pushing his hair back. He turned to the window. Snow wanted a show did he? Wanted excitement, a twist. Well, if that's what he wanted Seneca had one hell of a twist in mind.

Gripping the edge he climbed out, sitting on the ledge once he was up there. The wind was blowing and it felt cool and refreshing, but Seneca could not savor it.

"What do you think you're doing?" Snow's voice asked, sounding utterly beside himself.

"I told you," Seneca laughed, a dry humorless laugh as he got to his feet. "I am special," he smiled, stepping out onto the air.


End file.
